


Terrible Love

by KrisRix



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Book 2: Wayward Son, Communication Failure, Holding Hands, Light Angst, M/M, Nightmares, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Post-Book 2: Wayward Son, Spoilers for Book 2: Wayward Son
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-30 02:18:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20806886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisRix/pseuds/KrisRix
Summary: We haven’t resolved anything—I haven’t told him all the things I should. I’m still waiting for him togetit, but when has Simon Snow evergotanything?We’re terrible at getting through to each other.I’m dreading what might happen once we return home, once we tackle what’s waiting for us at Watford, once we face the Coven’s wrath over our innumerable misdeeds while in America, once Simon and I actuallytalk.I don’t want to talk.Baz has a nightmare on the plane ride home.





	Terrible Love

On the flight back home, Snow and I have our row to ourselves, no third seat to get in our way. (Though, the same amount of legroom.) He wanted to be sat next to the aisle on the flight over; this time, he asks for the window. I don’t particularly care—either way, it all feels too tight.

After take-off, which he’s nervous about (ironically), Snow spends a good long while simply looking out the window. He really enjoyed those vast American skies.

Once he switches to watching bad action films, I settle in more comfortably. I wait until Snow seems sufficiently distracted, then I lay my head against his shoulder.

We haven’t resolved anything—I haven’t told him all the things I should. I’m still waiting for him to _get_ it, but when has Simon Snow ever _got_ anything?

We’re terrible at getting through to each other.

I’m dreading what might happen once we return home, once we tackle what’s waiting for us at Watford, once we face the Coven’s wrath over our innumerable misdeeds while in America, once Simon and I actually _talk_.

I don’t want to talk. I want him to know and to feel and to _accept_ it, without me having to confess to anything else.

I want _him_. However he’ll have me.... I’ll take whatever he’ll give, for as long as he’ll give it.

I’ll take _this_, for now. His solid presence. His warmth and his pulse and the gentle rise and fall of his shoulder with each breath.

I want so much. But … he’s alive, and that’s the only thing I _need_.

* * *

_Simon Snow is lying on the ground._

_I’m dragging myself through sand._

  


_His wing is bent the wrong way._

_My arm is gripped by a wolf in sheep’s clothing._

  


_Blood pours from his body._

_Panicked pleas pour from mine._

  


_Fire snakes closer to us._

_It doesn’t end in flames._

  


_The fire dies out long before it ends._

_Simon Snow’s fire dies out long before it ends._

  


_There is no end._

_There is hell and howling._

_There is no end._

* * *

There are hands are on my shoulders as I wrench my eyes open. I’m gasping, _whimpering_—

“_Shh_.”

I struggle, but the hold is solid, feeling far too similar to the vice-like grip that threatened to crumble my arm mere moments ago—

“It was just a nightmare, Baz.”

_Simon ... Simon...!_

I whip my head to him, my panicked brain scrambling to take in my surroundings. Simon Snow’s focused, bright eyes stare back at me from his sun-flushed and freckled face.

“We’re on the plane.” His voice is so soft, only a vampire could hear it. “It’s okay.”

I whimper again and clasp a hand over my mouth.

_Simon._

“Easy,” Simon whispers. He sweeps his hand over my sweaty forehead, pressing my hair back and behind my ear. “Easy, Baz. You’re okay.”

I breathe through my nose, hard and fast, noisy like a bull. I can feel the tension in my face and neck, and I know I must be making a truly terrified expression. There’s no controlling it.

“You’re okay,” Simon says again. “I’m right here.” He’s looking at me with this determined glint, like he’s compelling me to keep my eyes locked to his. (As if I could resist.)

I keep huffing and clutch my mouth tighter. My fangs are scraping the inside of my bottom lip. The man behind us has one of those gaudy stoned crosses on—I caught sight of it immediately as we were taking our seats—and I swear the increased surface area of each stone facet is making the potency of the bloody cross all that more heightened. My fangs are rattling in my jaw in protest.

Snow’s eyes continue to bore into my soul. (_Ha_. As if I have one.) “Focus on me,” he murmurs.

His voice is so low and soft, so intimate. It makes my hammering heart stutter with confusion, unsure if it should keep pumping fear through my veins or something sweeter.

My jaw hurts. My _chest_ hurts.

I’m afraid.

“I know,” Snow says.

_'Do you?'_ I want to ask.

“Just keep breathing.” Snow’s hand hasn’t stopped touching me with these slow, firm strokes along my hair and cheek and jaw. “I’m right here, love.”

My eyes burn, and it’s not from the cross. Snow’s close enough that he’s nearly all I can see—it’s a watery sight.

“I know,” he says again. “Breathe, love.”

I’m weak, so I dip in towards him. Snow meets me in the middle—my heart clenches.

He gently knocks our foreheads together. I can feel his eyes still locked on mine, but I stare down at the armrest between us and try to will it away—will everything away. The cross and my fangs and this whole plane of heartbeats as we fly over the Atlantic. Everything but _him_.

When was the last time he called me _'love'?_

When was the last time he called me anything other than _'Baz'?_ (Or _'wanker'_ or _'tosser'_ or _'areshole'_ or—)

(Never _'darling'_—)

“Remember what Lamb told you,” he whispers.

I tense, but Simon’s fingers curl around the back of my neck and hold me to him.

“Breathe,” he urges. “Focus on me, and breathe, and imagine them pulling back.”

It’s immensely embarrassing that they all heard the talk about my fangs with Lamb over dinner.

Still … Simon is right.

This is an animal response. Sometimes, a hunger response; right now, a fear response.

_'You are not an animal,'_ Lamb said.

I don’t want to think about Lamb. I don’t want Simon to think about Lamb.

Crowley, yes, of _course_ there’s a part of me that wants to know more about what I am. Lamb has those answers, has all of the answers. (He’s the Vampire King, for snake’s sake!)

_Why is my control so poor?_

_Why am I so much greyer than the others? Why am I ageing, when they aren’t?_

I fear I know the answer already. I don’t need Lamb to say it.

That’s what Simon doesn’t understand (one of many things Simon doesn’t understand): I’m not looking for a vampire mentor. I’m not _looking_ for answers. I’ve learned more than enough this week.

I don’t want to be a part of that world. I want to be a part of the world Simon saved.

No.

I want to be a part of whatever world _Simon_ wants to be a part of.

I’d cross every line for him.

Slowly, I let my hand over my mouth loosen, then fall. Snow’s hold on my neck loosens in return. He draws his head back to look at me, at my mouth. My fangless mouth. I let him see.

Simon smiles. It’s faint, but it’s proud. It’s for _me_.

“There you go,” he says, his breath flitting hotly across my face. He smells like the sour cream and onion crisps he ate earlier—which is frankly disgusting. I still wish I could kiss him.

I want to ask if I can kiss him. I don’t think I’m allowed—asking. So I say nothing.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Snow asks. He’s no longer quite as close. I would lament that my chance has passed, except I never really had it.

I give him a small shake of my head. I’m afraid to speak.

I’m always so afraid to speak....

We’re terrible at being honest.

“Okay.” Snow rubs his thumb over my cheekbone.

With the adrenaline gone, I’m left feeling weak and heavy-limbed. Snow seems satisfied by my visible unwinding; he relaxes, too. He stops touching me.

“We’re almost home,” he mumbles comfortingly. His touch may be gone, but eyes don’t leave mine. Snow’s gaze remains narrowed, resolute—it’s blue and expansive and nothing like the American sky. It’s everything.

“You’re my home,” I say back.

I shouldn’t have.

Snow’s gaze leaves me then.

I shouldn’t have said it.

I don’t know why. That’s the part I find the hardest to handle: not knowing the _why_.

_What did I do to push you away, Simon Snow?_

_Have I loved you too much? Or not enough?_

_Do you want me to say it or not?_

I’m weak. I want to hide my face in shame. I’m also too weak to look away. He’s always been stronger than me.

I can see every minutiae of Snow’s long swallow. His lip is pulled between his teeth as he glares at the back of the seat ahead of him, the film he was watching still bumbling forth. He’s looking through it.

He’s thinking about something. Snow’s always been devastatingly bad at thinking.

Then he releases his lip, presses them together, and cocks his jaw.

He’s _decided_ something.

Snow’s hand is clumsy as it finds mine. He nudges at my fingers until he can push his own between them.

I’ve held Snow’s hand in so many ways, through so many things. It makes me no more capable of knowing the meaning of his touch.

What kind of handhold is this? _'Sorry you feel that way'_? _'I’ll be supportive since you had a weird vampire panic attack just now'_? _'You’re my home, too'_?

We’re terrible at understanding each other.

I frown and look down at our joined hands. My fingers are long and well-kept and smooth, save for the fire-crafted callouses of my palms. Snow’s fingers are stubbier, the cuticles ragged, and his skin is tougher, dry and littered with callouses and small scars from hilts and blisters and fights.

His skin is sun-kissed from this long (_long_) week. It makes my own skin look even more ashen. He’s freckled and tanned and just a little bit sunburnt along his nose. He’s radiant, like he’s absorbed the heat of the oppressive American sun and turned it into something beautiful and comforting. He’s _warm_ and rough, and I can feel his pulse in the tight grip of his fingers.

Crowley, he’s so alive.

And he very nearly wasn’t.

I can’t look any at him any longer. I give in to the other side of my weakness and lean back against my headrest. I close my eyes and take in a breath through my nose, deep and uneven. I’m tearful again.

Snow squeezes my hand—two quick pulses of strength.

And of course, I don’t know what it means.

And he’s decided something, but he won’t say what.

_'Use your words,'_ I want to scream.

But I won’t say that. I won't say anything.

I squeeze his hand once: _'I love you.'_

Again: _'I’m sorry.'_

We’re terrible at this.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something post-Wayward Son to simultaneously soothe the ache and also pick the wound.
> 
> Title from the song ["Terrible Love" by The National](https://open.spotify.com/track/6BSNHSXrOVNnRcm85D4YIt?si=37HF2871RCGKZBelQrjBIg)  



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